Dear Friends of the Bernard Betel Centre,
Today we gather in sorrow, in solidarity, and in remembrance. Two years have passed since October 7, 2023 — a day that marked one of the darkest chapters in recent history. On that day, innocent lives were brutally taken, families were torn apart, and our community — here and around the world — was shaken to its core.
We remember the victims, whose lives were stolen far too soon. We stand with the families who continue to mourn loved ones, and we pray for the safe return of those who remain in captivity. Their absence is felt every day, and we will not rest until they are brought home.
This date also falls on the anniversary of the Yom Kippur War, reminding us of another moment when our people were attacked, when Israel’s very existence was at stake, and when unimaginable sacrifices were made. Both October 7 and the Yom Kippur War remind us not only of our vulnerability, but also of our resilience, our courage, and our responsibility to carry forward the memory of those who suffered with dignity and strength.
I would be remiss if I did not acknowledge that these tragedies are not distant for us. Many of our members, families, and staff have lost loved ones. Many continue to carry the pain of trauma, grief, and fear. We see you. We stand with you. And, together, as a community, we will continue to support one another, to honour the memory of the victims, and to reaffirm our commitment to life, to hope, and to a future where our children can live in peace.
On this solemn anniversary, let us hold close the memories of those we have lost, let us pray for those still waiting to come home, and let us draw strength from one another as a community as we look to the future with resilience and faith.
Bring Them Home
On that dark October morning,
a silence was broken by screams.
The world turned its face,
yet we cannot turn away.
We carry the weight of shattered lives,
children stolen, parents torn,
families left with empty chairs
and prayers that echo in the night.
Grief has no borders,
and anguish knows no tongue.
We speak for those who cannot speak,
we cry for those still bound in shadows.
Each heartbeat waits for their return.
Each dawn rises with one plea:
Bring them home—
to arms that ache,
to tables waiting,
to lives interrupted, not erased.
Let compassion move the mountains,
let justice pierce the dark.
For memory demands it,
and humanity requires it.
Bring them home.
Now.
